


Head Trip

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Prostitution, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, apparently in my headcanon, Ratchet's a bit of a stone butch.  </p>
<p>Pre-war, prostitution, sticky,...snuggles?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Trip

“This what you meant by plans?” Ratchet cocked his head at the smaller mech, whose orange optics narrowed as the comment snapped into focus for him.

Drift, leaning with the others, a buymech’s triwave on his arm, in Red Alley. Not what Ratchet expected to see. “Don’t you got better things to do than hunt me down?” The voice was sullen, the chin tucked, half-embarrassed, but defiant.

“Do I?” Ratchet lived for needling others, in his way, especially when he caught them doing stupid things. Drift was…so busted. 

“Why else you down here?”

“Same reason as everyone else, I imagine.” Ratchet held out a credit chit. 

“You.” A dubious, raking look. 

Ratchet shrugged.  Buymechs were consensual.  And he didn’t have time or emotional resources for a real relationship: he’d learned that too many times, too hard.  This was safe, controlled, controllable.  “You.” 

Drift’s mouth pressed together, then he tossed his head, a fractious little gesture. “Fine.  At least your money’s probably good.”

Ratchet muffled the snort, signaling the other to fall into step behind him. This wasn’t the reason he kept one of his closet-clinics down here, but it was convenient enough. And the place was hardly posh: a medical resident’s bare-bones quarters, with a small berth, a basic energon dispenser, a maintenance facility.  He pointed to the last as they entered. 

“What.” Drift stopped, planting his feet, looking around.

“Shower off,” Ratchet said. 

He could see the small skirmish on Drift’s face: the offer of a bath, cleanness, versus, well, obeying Ratchet.

The bath won. It always did, though most times, there wasn’t even a fight, more a dubiousness that this was real. Ratchet gave a wry smile as he heard the door lock, Drift securing himself in the room before turning on the taps.  Maybe it was a lack of trust, maybe it was just another layer of luxury, to be able to put a barrier between oneself and everything. 

When Drift came out, a few missed cleanser droplets still glistening on his spaulders, Ratchet already had a ration of nutrient broth prepared, on a heating pad on the small table.

“What’s that?”

“Yours,” Ratchet said, with that slight incline to his head that implied ‘are you slightly dull for not figuring that out?’.

Drift crossed over to it, studying it, sniffing it carefully. “Not energon.”

“No.”

“Drugged?”

Ratchet wanted to point out that if he had drugged it, the last thing he’d do would be admit it to Drift. “I already paid for your time. Would I really need to?”

Another wary glance, but the shoulders lowered from their suspicious hunch.  “Why? This isn’t part of the…usual.”

Ratchet pulled out the battered chair on the other side of the small table, lowering down onto it. “Maybe it’s a kink of mine.”

“Got some weird kinks.” But Drift sat down, almost grudgingly, taking a cautious sip of the yellow liquid. 

“Why I have to pay for it,” Ratchet said, dryly. “Not a lot of mechs like getting paid to be watched refueling.” Why not play along?  Sure, maybe it was a kink, to take some guttermech and let him feel clean and fed and almost safe for a little bit. Maybe it was a power trip. All medics had that temptation with power. Unless you really felt you could go toeplate to toeplate with death, the job ate you alive.

“Your money,” Drift said, before his optics half-lidded, as the nutrient broth hit his systems. It was lighter than energon, and warm, and full of useful chemicals.  Sure, it was for invalids, but, mechs who fueled as rarely as guttermechs, or who had such low grade swill as fuel, could use it.  Ratchet could tell, simply by the change in Drift’s engine idle, the way it lowered, almost relaxing.  Ratchet simply watched, and he would admit, took pleasure in it. It had been a rough week, another riot gone violent, and he’d lost two patients, one whose name he never even found out before they whisked the body off to the smelter.  He needed to do something good for someone, however small. He needed this, as much, if not more, than Drift needed the broth.

Drift put the glass down, empty, looking almost drowsy and sated, the grin a little less snarky, a little more—almost endearingly—lopsided. “What next? You going to tuck me into bed for a nap?” 

Ratchet smirked. “Got it in one.” Kind of. But still, it was a good bridge as any, so he rose, the chair scraping on the tiles, tilting his head to the small berth. “If you’re lucky, I’ll even sing you a lullaby.”

Drift rose, snorting, almost comfortable. It was a strange difference, and Ratchet wondered if this was really who Drift was, who he could be, if he was freed from the gutters. “Good thing I’m not the lucky type.”

“Luckier than you think. Seems to me if it wasn’t for me you’d’ve had your head fried from boosting.”

The snorting laugh faded, uncomfortable. “Yeah. That.” 

Ratchet felt a little bad, but then again, not bad enough. Drift could do better than that, better than this, selling himself for money.  He couldn’t figure out how to break through whatever wall kept the grounder from seeing that himself. If it took a few barbs to get through his thick plating, well, it was better that than circuit-boosters.  At least Ratchet’s hard common sense wouldn’t short out half a mech’s neural circuits.

But Drift had settled himself on the edge of the berth, hands curled around the edge, expectant, even if a little unsure, knowing what happened next, normally, but knowing this already wasn’t exactly normal.

“Lie back,” Ratchet said. It was his medic voice, the one no one was dumb enough to challenge. And Drift wasn’t dumb enough for once, lying back, obediently, figuring this was probably the part he was familiar with: lie down and hope it’s over soon.

That part was not in Ratchet’s plans.  He moved down the berth, kneeling between Drift’s legs, running a knowledgeable thumb along the seam of the interface hatch, optics darting between the metal panel and Drift’s face.

“What,” Drift said, shifting almost restlessly on the berth.

“Another kink, maybe,” Ratchet said, breezily, finding the latch, sliding the panel open, moving his fingers to the valve cover, circling the rim with feathery light fingertips. “Not afraid of me, are you?”

Ha. The exact right thing to say, Drift’s face moving through that sullen set of his, and then shifting, crumbling, as the soft touches to his valve rim sent little shivers through his frame. He could feel the heat building, behind the thin leaves of the valve cover, the tautness spreading through the thigh servos.  He shifted direction, circling the other way, then changing the movement, circle in circle, a series of small spirals looping around the cover.

“W…what are you waiting for?” Drift asked, hands clutching at the berth. 

“You,” Ratchet said, calmly, and it was like that word was some magic word: the valve cover spiraled open under his fingers, the hips tipping up, almost urgently.

“Right,” Drift breathed. “Now.” Like admitting to desire was some kind of surrender, one he made only absolutely grudgingly.

“Not yet,” Ratchet said. It was a separate struggle: Drift with his own body, Drift with Ratchet, thinking he knew how this would go down. It was impossible not to find it arousing, and he felt his own spike surge behind its cover, a hot pressure inside him, as he swooped his fingers around the valve, slipping into the plush, dark mesh of the lining. 

Drift gave a soft groan, which he choked off, hips twisting on the berth, torn between moving up, into the touch, and finding the touch too much and trying to draw away. 

Ratchet moved forward, bracing his free hand by Drift’s shoulder, blocking any attempt the other would make to squeeze his legs shut with his body, looking down at the other’s face, as he worked another finger into the valve, the sensitive fingertips sliding over the plush mesh, as he spread them apart, twisted them, pulled them toward the valve’s mouth again, studying Drift’s face, which rode that shuddering line of desire trying to hide itself. 

He picked up the tempo, fingers moving more urgently in the valve, feeling the slickness tighten around them, a sinuous wave traveling up Drift’s body, the other’s hands reaching for his shoulders, and falling aside, helpless.  Drift’s optics had fallen closed, distracted, until he forced them open, forced them brighter.

“You going to spike me?” Almost impatient, demanding, unused to being the focus of this. He was a buymech; others used him for their own pleasure. And Ratchet wasn’t much different: it was just that his pleasure was in this control, this ability to master another’s body, their desire.

“No,” Ratchet said. “I’m going to watch you overload.” 

A desperate gasp, and this time the hands did make contact with his shoulders, fingers squeezing into the metal of his dermal plating, the dark thighs squeezing against his, trying to pull him down.

Ratchet conceded this much: he lowered his head, mouth close to the audio. “The more you fight it,” he whispered, “the harder you’ll overload.” A warning? A hint? That was up to Drift to decide.  Ratchet just wanted to see it, feel it, the smell of friction-heated lubricant rising between their bodies, his fingers warming with the other’s slick fluids.

Drift didn’t seem to know how to take it, either, his head thrashing from side to side, hands growing desperate, clinging to Ratchet’s broader shoulders, a sound, almost a ululation, building in his vocalizer.  Ratchet could feel impatience growing within himself, wanting to see the overload, feel it against his EM field, his hand, watch that mouth pulled into a shape of ecstasy.  And wanting, most of all, to know he was the source of it all. 

Ratchet slid his thumb against Drift, that small span of metal between the two equipment covers, as he hooked his fingers inside upward, just to watch the jolt of lust shoot through Drift’s body, to feel the calipers clamp down against him.

Fighting. He could feel Drift fighting it, trying to deepen his ventilations, steady his rising engines. 

And failing. Drift lunged up at him, suddenly, his mouth aiming for Ratchet’s throat, hot and feral, and finding the heavy edge of Ratchet’s collar armor, dentae sinking in, a howl of ecstasy pressing into the metal, as the valve rippled against his fingers, hot fluid sluicing over Ratchet’s hand, Drift’s EM field whipping over his in a tangle of sensation, electrons swirling in microsparks, tingling against Ratchet’s frame.

Ratchet gave a heavy, contented sigh, as Drift softened, releasing off him, hands unclenching, mouth releasing the rim of his collar armor, valve calipers loosening, the grounder’s lowlight optics lidded and half-dimmed. There was a little quiver, through Drift’s frame, an aftershock Ratchet felt against his fingers as he slowly drew them out, slick and hot from the friction against the velvety mesh. His own desire had dissipated, spread from the hard knot in his belly, near his spike, to a warm glow through his whole body, satiation without the tension of rising and falling, just steady and warm and lasting.

 Drift gave a deep vent of air, head lolling to one side, almost exhausted.  “What now?” he mumbled, blearily.

Now, Ratchet thought, was the best part.  He lowered onto the berth, pulling Drift’s smaller frame into the crooks of his shape as he settled on his side, pillowing the grounder’s helm on one arm. His other hand wrapped lightly over Drift’s waist, fingertips just grazing the still-open valve, cupping against the spike cover, snugging the other’s body against his.  “Hm. Bath. Meal. Sex.” He shrugged, letting the movement travel through the contact of their bodies. “Guess what’s next is sleep.”

Drift turned his head, the long finials helixing the air. “What?” Openly confused, almost no trace of his usual frown or wariness, just an honest question, like he couldn’t believe he’d heard it right.

“Sleep,” Ratchet said, his own body feeling warm and luxurious, that wonderful tiredness of having done something good.  “You know what that is? Or am I going to have to make good on that lullaby?”

 


End file.
